


Yesterday,  Today, and Tomorrow

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Unmarried!Clint, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: The man with the arrows was the first one to reach out to her almost like a friend, even after she'd hurt his friends. And in the wake of her brother's death, Wanda finds an anchor when Clint lets her take his hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something new. God help us all. ;-)

Pietro's longish hair fluttered in the breeze, even though Wanda tried repeatedly to smooth it back into place. His face was pale, the scruffy beard standing out in sharp relief against the lack of color. His eyes were closed. She wondered if the archer had done it. It had been good of Barton to pick up her brother's body, bring it aboard the carrier. It wouldn't have been right to leave him behind.

" _You know, I am twelve minutes older than you._

She placed a hand on Pietro's forehead, but he was already cooling. She would see to his burial if she had to dig the grave with her hands. They owed her nothing, these Avengers, and what little goodwill she might have earned in the eleventh hour was scant comfort. Even pulling out the unbeating heart of one of those automatons had been little more than a gesture made in private. That she had cast aside, tossed it away like the rubbish it was, but she'd collected some of the crumbling land mass before finally conceding to find a seat on the carrier. She'd put it into a plastic container, which sat in her lap. Rocks, dirt, broken glass, asphalt. Like the pieces of her shattered heart.

Clint was sitting across from her, looking at her bowed head and the way her hair obscured her face. He'd seen her at work, the powers she wielded, but the way she touched Maximoff's brow belied the destructive abilities that lay within her. Against his will, the boy had grown on him, and now the boy was dead because he'd put his body between him and a hail of bullets. He opened his mouth to say something, to offer Wanda some solace, and then he closed his mouth again. Both because he wouldn't have known what to say anyway, and because he didn't know how to take her now. An enemy bent on revenge he could handle, but this half-broken young woman? No.

"Barton."

Clint lifted his gaze, and she was looking at him. Her expression was weary, large eyes haunted by things he wasn't privy to. The transport continued its journey, and the breeze ruffled their hair as her narrow jaw tightened. She would not weep in front of this man who had so recently been her adversary, not even over her brother's corpse. Tears would shame them both.

"I..."

Was she trying to read him now, gauge the best thing to say? She was still an unknown quantity, and he'd seen the effects of her powers at work. A slight scowl crossed Clint's face, and Wanda averted her eyes, watching the land flow past rather than look at Pietro. Her accent was still rounded at both ends, unlike Natasha's, which had become Americanized over the years. He'd brought Nat in from the cold, acting against strict orders because he'd had a gut feeling about her. He had no such feeling now. He watched Wanda in profile, avoiding looking at the dead boy on the floor between them.

"I thank you."

She said it stiffly, formally, and he didn't know if she meant for bringing Pietro's body along, for giving her an emotional boost during the battle, or for not killing her outright once she'd realized her error with Ultron. All of it? None of it? Clint raked a hand through his hair, lifted one shoulder. 

"Okay."

*****

"She isn't eating."

Clint said it to Natasha three days later after a training session, and there was concern and annoyance in his voice. He'd taken an unofficial position of watching over their newest 'recruit', and as Wanda began to learn how to actually harness her abilities, he'd noticed she was only eating a portion of the lunches the cafeteria served. She ate enough that she wasn't obviously starving herself, and he might not have noticed it at all if she didn't always eat alone, but he'd seen the tray in passing when she carried it back to the serving station, how much of her meal was uneaten. He was equal parts irritated and troubled by it, because she was slight enough that if she was only consuming part of her meals, the weight would drop off as if she had consumption. He'd meant it when he said he was no one's baby sitter, and that was the source of his irritation, but he didn't want her dropping dead from hunger either.

Nat looked at him sideways, then twisted around on the bench they occupied to look behind her. They'd been cooling off in the early dusk, walking around the outdoor track rather than running, and he finally said the thing that had taken up residence in the back of his mind. She handed him a bottle of water, and Clint uncapped it a little sullenly. "Did you ask her why?"

"No. I don't want her to think I'm spying on her, and she probably would." He'd seen Wanda's vague paranoia in that first day, and didn't it stand to reason? She'd been experimented on, treated like a lab rat, and while she was one of the only two people to survive the experiments, being watched likely set her nerves on edge and would for a while. Natasha made a 'hmm' noise, drank some water from her own bottle. He saw her glance up at the sky, pretended he hadn't. Banner was still MIA, and though his friend never said as much, the scientist's conspicuous absence worried her. Worried and hurt her. 

"I think she might not mind if you asked," she said, and Clint made a dubious sound. "My guess? It's survivor's guilt She made it and her brother didn't. If you hadn't made sure we brought his body back, she wouldn't have even been able to bury him. That's something she didn't ask for, but you did it anyway."

The hand not holding the plastic bottle pushed through close-cropped hair, and he said, "I did it as much for myself as for Wanda. Pietro died saving me and that kid, and I didn't even get to thank him. She said 'I thank you' while we were on our way back, but _she's_ the mind-reader, not me."

Natasha said nothing for a minute, then broke the silence. "Sounds like _you_ haven't really dealt with everything yet."

He laughed, a dry sound. "We keep going because we have to. That's what I told Wanda, pretty much, that being an Avenger meant you fight even when nothing makes sense. Some days are easier than others." 

She looked up at the sky again, and he watched her deliberately straighten her posture. He bumped her shoulder very lightly. "He'll come back." 

"I know. It's just..." She waved her hand at nothing, and Clint finished the sentence for her. "...that some days are harder than others, too."

*****

Wanda used the plastic fork to push food around on her plate, being mindful to take a bite every few minutes. She knew the archer had seen her half-full lunch tray a few days ago, and she was keeping an eye out for him so she didn't make the same mistake again. Today it was mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and soup. American food. 

She didn't think of it as self-denial or punishment. She was just.....fasting. Ridding her body of the last of the impurities she might have picked up. They had a doctor on staff at the compound - not the one who turned green - and she'd been thoroughly examined. Examined and found in very good shape, at least physically. Wanda had been spending most of her time alone when she wasn't training. None of the others seemed to know what to think of her, so they allowed her to keep to herself. That wasn't unusual. Even before, when she'd been under Strucker's 'care', the other volunteers had been wary of her and what she could do. What she was capable of. Why should it be any different now?

Pietro had been buried on the grounds in a quiet ceremony. She, Barton and the Romanov woman had attended, along with a handful of the refugees who''d escaped from Sokovia. The child whose life her brother had saved was also there, ducking behind his mother every time anyone looked his way. And maybe it was just more evidence of what a terrible person she was, but she'd resented the boy's presence. It had been a bright, clear day,, the antithesis of funeral weather. Wanda ate a few more bites, conscious of the possibility that someone would notice she was barely touching her food. 

"Hey, Wanda."

Clint said the words as he put his tray down on the other side of the cafeteria table. There were few other people present right then; it was nearly one-thirty, and lunch was technically over, but scheduling tended to be lax unless there was a mission coming up. She looked up at him, the white plastic utensil halfway to her mouth, and then very carefully put the mashed potatoes into her mouth. The archer seldom took lunch here, and she looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Romanov moving to join them. Natasha. Her name was Natasha. Wanda played with her fork.

"Don't mind me," he said, opening the can of Coke he'd gotten with his lunch. He'd decided that being subtle was best. If he ate, she'd have to eat. He pointed at her unfinished meatloaf, said, "Looks good, doesn't it? You're probably not used to the meat and potatoes thing yet, but you'll acclimate. It'll put meat on your bones."

She glowered at him without speaking. This was why she'd been sitting by herself, to avoid detection. She was fine, had _been_ fine, but with Barton sitting across from her she couldn't not finish what was on her tray. Wanda played with the fork a little more aggressively, then reluctantly speared a bit of vegetable-infused meatloaf. It actually _was_ good, and despite her quiet attempt to avoid completing a meal, her stomach had been protesting the sudden strictures. The archer's presence was something she couldn't decide if she minded or not. 

He watched her eat covertly, sensing the muted resentment. But he kept his expression noncommittal, because her well-being was important to him. Her brother had died with Clint owing him his life, so maybe in his head he'd transferred that debt to Wanda. And she'd be an asset to the Avengers once she had a better handle on her powers. He'd already surmised that she probably hadn't had much socialization outside of Pietro, and those first shaky steps into the world had already been difficult. Clint ate half of his mashed potatoes, having already used the three miniature containers of butter he'd snagged from the bin at the end of the lunch line. He'd gotten the last ones, and the plastic lids had curled up when he'd set them down next to his tray.

"I didn't get to thank him.. There wasn't time."

Wanda went very still, and for a second Clint thought she might just let him have it right there, blast him out of his seat and across the floor. But when she looked up and met his gaze, her eyes were big and sad and he realized she hadn't been sleeping either. He wondered when she'd last cried. Months? Years?

"And I did not get to say goodbye." She was remembering Pietro as he'd been, smiling and sure of himself to the point of arrogance, not as she'd seen him last. He'd been what had kept her sane, or sane enough. And he would have wanted her to live, to not wither away. No matter how guilty she felt for surviving him. And she _did_ feel guilty, almost cripplingly so. She didn't realize how tightly she was holding the fork until it broke in her grasp.

"Hey."

Clint put his hand out, resting palm up on the table. It was a risk, because Wanda's abilities were emotion-driven, and at this range she could probably do lethal damage. But a debt owed was a serious thing to him, and so he extended his hand regardless of the potential threat. He might have held his breath when he did so, but still.

She studied the hand, which was large with blunt fingers. There were calluses at the base of the index finger and on the palm. Ridiculously, she wondered how old Barton had been when he'd strung his first bow. His green eyes were almost calm when she looked into them, and the kindness she saw beneath that nearly broke her. 

Her silver rings pressed into his flesh when she grasped his hand, and he gingerly smoothed his thumb over her knuckles. The contact lingered for a full minute, and she let go first. Clint felt his stomach relax. If it was a test, maybe it had been one for both of them. 

"Thank you, Barton." 

"You can call me Clint," he said gruffly, and the left corner of Wanda's mouth quirked as she finally finished her lunch, which had gotten cold. 'Clint'. Like the man from the movies. A masculine name, the way Barton was masculine. But maybe she _liked_ calling him Barton. When you were born going against the grain, conforming to any standard right out of the gate was difficult. 

"He liked you."

She said it in a low voice, getting up from the table. The guilt was still there, because had she known what Pietro was planning, she could have stopped it. Maybe, if she could have been faster than he was. But it had been tamped down by the food and the archer's sudden appearance. She might be able to sleep through the night tonight. Maybe.

He watched her leave, carrying the tray to the gray plastic bin. He was thinking that that feral quality he'd seen in her would serve her well as long as she didn't let it control her. He could still feel the pressure of her rings, the echo of a touch. Clint shook off the sensation, collected his tray. Strange girl. Woman. But not altogether alien for all that.


End file.
